Request
by Harukami
Summary: After having been attacked by Ciato, Rastaban seeks Ildon's help


Request- by Harukami  
  
It hurts to breathe, to move. That, I remind myself, would be the fault of the gaping wound in my chest. No matter. I have to find him, or everything I've worked so hard for these past ten years will be undone. That would be so funny, in its own bitter way. To have tried so hard and waited so long and lose it all to /Ciato/.  
  
I'd laugh, but that hurts too. No, I must concentrate on walking, or crawling, since I can't risk phasing away. I might vanish and never be able to phase back in. Here, at least, pain reassures me that I'm still present, curls gently around me like an old friend.  
  
Ah, stairs. Of course. All of Chateau Aiguille is stairs.  
  
The Chateau is really not designed for injured people. I daren't walk upright on these. Falling would undo me, for sure. As always, the stairs are made of rosewood and glass. My hands leave smears of blue as I grasp at the step above, force myself up. I lose my grip and the glass shrieks with that high pitched sound of hot hands rubbing friction on wet glass.  
  
It is me that the glass is wet with. I find this funny. I think I'm losing too much blood.  
  
/Ciato/, of all people. Ciato! The tiresome, whiny bat knight! There's a lesson in here, I'm sure. Anybody can defeat anybody. They just have to have luck and surprise and cunning on their side. It is, of course, what I'm counting on. I shouldn't have been blind to the other grasper for power, the one who /is/ loyal to his darling, beloved Lord Orlouge.  
  
Personally, I can't see what Orlouge sees in him. Or saw. Poor Ciato has been out of Orlouge's bed for centuries. He didn't used to be this whiny; that may well be a reason why. I have no sympathy for him, seriously.  
  
A landing. I stop to catch my breath. Flowers brighten and dim around me, responding to my presence. I should not wait here long; every moment counts. For me and for her.  
  
Back up I go, then, farther. More blood; my wounds were trying to close, if failing, and turning to the next set of steps opens them more. I laugh. Irony is never lost on me.  
  
Finally, the arena, looming ahead, the embossed rose on the floor glowing. As I thought, Ildon is there. Thank the heavens for predictability. I don't think I could have afforded to go back down those steps.  
  
He is practicing, and as I catch my breath, I watch him.  
  
Absorbed in himself, as always, as he practices. Beautiful in his own way. Lanky figure twists in fighter's patterns, his long green hair flying behind him like a cape. The feathers on his jacket ruffle as he lunges, sword in hand, against his invisable opponant. It isn't just being seeped in blood that makes me find that sexy.  
  
I laugh and he stops, turns, no doubt ready to tell me off. Red eyes see me, my orange jacket soaked in blue -- if I survive this, there's another comission for the master tailor, and I'll charge Ciato for it before he dies. Ildon sees me. His sword hits the ground with a clatter as he runs over, and I know he must be shocked, then, because he's a swordmaster. He'd never abuse his sword like that for no good cause.  
  
"Rastaban," he says, and it is something of a relief to hear that horror in his voice, that sick anticipatory horror.  
  
Perhaps he is capable of feeling after all. Not a lost cause, perhaps.  
  
He cannot go more white-faced than he is, but he has sunk down and pulled me closer and my wounds are open. At least his clothing is black; that will not stain, even if it's so without style. I can feel my body start to flicker in between here and the nothing that is death to us. I am vanishing, then.  
  
"What happened?" he whispers, his voice a hush of death. Not particularly encouraging, but still a bit gratifying.  
  
"Ciato," I say, and watch his face go blank, then stunned, then disbelieving.  
  
"/Ciato/?!"  
  
I laugh, his indignation is just so impossibly him. I laugh and cough blood and Ildon is pushing his hair aside, bearing his throat, lifting me so I'm nearer.  
  
I could say no. Every moment counts. Asellus needs more protection, Ciato will go after her next. Still, my goal has no purpose if I'm not alive to see it. I'm no martyr, thankfully. And Ildon /is/ just so tempting.  
  
I am too weak for care, and open his throat savagely and push him over so I can feed better from that open, jagged wound. His blood, flowing into mine. I cannot be restored entirely; Ciato has taken my powers, and he must die before they are returned. But this may keep me alive, so weak, but alive. Ildon tastes like suffering. Ildon tastes like grief. It is good, to me.  
  
He is aroused, too, and pretending not to be, horrified at himself. So cruel, so evil, such a complete Mystic by the way the public defines us, and yet sometimes, Ildon is so adorably human, by the way they define themselves. My blood is all over me, calling to him, and yet he is horrified at his response. Oh, I adore my Ildon. I may not love him, but I adore him.  
  
I can feel it when I stabilize. Hit that critical balance between enough life force to survive and so little I'd vanish. I want more, but he needs to be healthy for what I want him to do, so I pull back. He looks at me, uncertain, so close, face inches from mine.  
  
There is something in his eyes which he hides from me, usually. Good, good. Good at any time, but better now, because I know he'll do what I ask. That was always the question. He can be grumpy and stubborn, but not now. Not with his heart in his eyes for the first time I can recall since he became a Mystic.  
  
I know it's a little sad that that's the most important thing to me, right now. But later I can spend time, thinking about his heart in his eyes.   
  
"Ildon."  
  
He jerks, uncertain, eyes starting to shutter, or maybe to tear up. I'm not sure. I have not seen Ildon cry since... I have no time. "Ildon, I need you to go and protect Asellus."  
  
His brow furrows, that stubborn wall back in place. "Asellus? That child? Why?"  
  
"Because it will upset Ciato."  
  
He's wavering.  
  
"Because I want you to." I stroke his cheek. "Please, Ildon. It's important to me."  
  
"Why?" Ildon asks, and I know he's given in. I can see it in his face.  
  
"I don't have time, now," I say. "I'll tell you later." I may never tell him. He may never understand. If he does, if he catches on, I will. I'll have no reason to hide it.  
  
He looks upset, about to argue, so I kiss him, my blood, his blood, still in my mouth. "Please," I say as he looks at me. "For me."  
  
Finally, he nods, standing and retrieving his sword, that cold persona in place, Ildon the Black Wing standing in front of me. "What about you?"  
  
"I'll hide out," I promise. "I'll not let Ciato or even Orlouge know I'm alive. I know where to go."  
  
He nods, and that /is/ gratifying, knowing that that was what was holding him here.  
  
"Rastaban," he says, and I think he might be about to say it.  
  
"No time," I tell him.  
  
He stares at me for a long, cold moment, face pale, eyes cruel and hard as they can be. And then he phases away, leaving me alone in the arena.  
  
I roll over on to my back, stare at the shifting, shining ceiling of Chateau Aiguille. My hand is resting over my heart and my wounds are closed.  
  
So. /So/.  
  
I am laughing, maybe too loud, but for now, I don't care. 


End file.
